Swinging With James McBride

Of course, James McBride is a musician. The prose in Deacon King Kong (2020) swings as effortlessly as Duke Ellington. The sharp dialogue has an unmistakable cadence. The interplay of the characters in this quintessential NYC novel reminded me of the way great jazz musicians listen carefully to one another when trading eight bar phrases and the laughter that frequently follows. Even the passages with an improvised feel in this book were tight.  

The narrative momentum in Deacon King Kong makes it an easy book to race through; avoid doing that. Pay close attention in Chapter One ("Jesus's Cheese") when McBride introduces folks from Five Ends Baptist; their role as a Greek chorus is a crucial element in the satisfying moral symmetry of the novel. The skilled depiction of secondary characters - e.g., the Governor, Soup, Harold - felt musical to me. It was as though each took a superb guest solo and then walked off stage. 

If you end up liking Deacon King Kong, go onto The Color of Water next. Ever since reading it upon its 1995 release, I've recommended that memoir to more people than any other I've subsequently finished. More McBride? The Good Lord Bird (2013) is his wild re-imagining of the life of radical abolitionist John Brown. If Deacon King Kong indeed swings like Duke, the musical analogue for The Good Lord Bird could be the controlled and inventive anarchy of the Mahavishnu Orchestra. And me? I'm onto his most recent novel, The Heaven and Earth Grocery Store (2023). 

Reflections From The Bell Curve: Geeky Reading Magic 

A Satisfying Substitute

What mental picture do you have when thinking of someone meditating? I'd guess many folks would envision a person alone, eyes closed, sitting still in a quiet place, paying attention to their breathing with or without repeating a mantra, aloud or silently. On many days, that picture would closely match what my meditation practice looks like.

Several years back, my mental picture was broadened when an instructor at a retreat spoke of "a walking meditation". Ever since, there have been infrequent moments when I'm so fully present that my mind feels nearly as empty as it does when I'm sitting still and alone with my breathing. Am I meditating? I'm not sure but I do know the chatter has momentarily stopped, I'm not judging anything or anyone, and even the usual minor annoyances that sometimes trigger me - like a noisy leaf blower - somehow don't intrude on the moment. I'm clear, grateful, and quiet.

A few mornings back, sitting on my deck, one of these infrequent moments arrived unexpectedly. Perhaps it was the beautiful weather. Or maybe it was gazing at my wife's wondrous garden with all the butterflies. It could have been as simple as the cup of coffee on the table, the book in front of me, my guitar one room away. In the end, it doesn't matter because at that moment I was alive with wonder and awash in the feeling of being loved. I knew there was no need later in the day to rely on my normal meditation practice to center myself. Somehow, I'd gotten "there" without it.        

I've Got Your Number (#5 - The NYC Street Version)

a.) Pursuit on 52nd St.

b.) The 53rd St. Bridge Song

c.) 57th St. 

d.) Across 59th St.

e.) 110th St. 

Before anyone chastises me for leaving 42nd St. from this list of scrambled titles, please recall I've used only numbers above fifty since kicking off this series early this year. Anyway, that iconic song/musical would have been too easy for this latest - perhaps final - iteration. Ready to try solving another puzzle in pop ephemera without using Google? Here we go.

Four of the five NYC street names above have been featured in pop songs beginning with a 1967 hit by Harper's Bizarre, probably the easiest of the bunch. However, none of the four "correct" street names are in the titles from the a-e list as noted. Those four street names are scrambled throughout, meaning you have to take one of the four correct street numbers and transplant it to a different title until you have four correct song titles. Hint: One of these four - when you get the right street number in its appropriate place - was also the title of a feature length film around the same time as the song. 

The remaining item has a NYC street name that I can't recall ever crossing my always-on musical radar. However, the number in that item was featured in a song title from the early 1990s, bemoaning the wasteland. Final challenge? Identify that song. As with iterations #1-4, additional hints will be provided after a suitable length of time but only if necessary. Warning: There's one nerd out there who is pretty quick responding to these silly challenges but even he needed a little help at least once. So, if you're out of the box quickly, you have a shot at besting him. I'm waiting.                

Recommended (Despite Slipping Film Bona Fides)

Back when there were just five, it was a point of pride for this movie buff to say he'd seen all the films nominated for an Academy Award before the February ceremonies. But beginning in 2010 - when the number of nominees increased to nine or ten films - I started falling behind regularly. How can I claim to be an aficionado in mid-July if there's still a 2023 nominee (Zone of Interest) I haven't seen? Worse, there are a few still-unseen nominees from 2010-2022 continually reminding me of my slipping film bona fides. The horror. (Get it?)

Despite my fall from grace, I remain confident recommending Anatomy of a Fall as a movie you don't want to miss. Although it earned a well-deserved Oscar for best original screenplay, I'll stake my claim as a cinephile - albeit a recently truant one - and say that end to end it is a better film end than 2023's winner (Oppenheimer). Every pause in Anatomy ... is beautifully modulated, every moment of silence fully earned, every screenplay cliche - including a final twist - averted. It is a 10. (There I go again.)    

About the other 2023 nominees. I'll pass commenting on Barbie. American Fiction is as ambitious as The Holdovers is modest. Both films succeed, though - good as they are - I suspect neither would have gotten a nomination when only five movies got that nod. Poor Things is so over-the-top it defies description. For my money, among the nine nominees I've seen, only Past Lives approaches the subtle mastery of Anatomy of a Fall, both in sharp contrast to the bloated bombast of the two over-hyped marquee messes I wrote about in late January. 

Don't want to disappoint anyone waiting for a film reference at the end of this post. How's this? The geek abides.               

Reflections From The Bell Curve: A Decade of Crabbing

Two Pieces of Mind

Grateful and weary; energized and tortured; inspired and demoralized. 

My fluctuating posture toward the everyday; my ever-toggling thoughts about my creative output; my varying reaction to artistic brilliance, moment dependent.   

Necessary and self-indulgent.

Today's reflection from the bell curve. Anyone?  

  

The Gloves Are Off

Over thirteen years and almost 2400 blog posts, I've exercised superhuman restraint with respect to how often I've bragged here about my daughter's professional accomplishments. Today the gloves are off. Feel free to tune out right now if two short paragraphs of effusive gushing about her strikes you as unseemly. But before doing so, ask yourself these questions: Have you ever met a parent who wasn't proud of their kids? Would you want anything to do with such a parent?

As much as her move to Los Angeles last July pained me, it appears that my daughter's professional instinct about the need to be closer to the epicenter of show business - her chosen field since the 5th grade - was wise. Damn it, anyway. In less than a year, her career as a writer and director has rocketed to a new level. Aside from two feature-length films in development, including one she created and co-wrote with her writing/directing partner, her current contracted gig represents the culmination of more than ten years of hard work trying to break through in the wacky industry she chose. 

My daughter and her partner - collectively called BONABART- are presently part of a team of seven in what's called a writer's room, all of them at work on a TV series that features two marquee actors. I'd name the actors but my daughter wouldn't be happy with me publicly crossing that line until after the series has its debut. All the better: You'll have to check back in for my next round of gushing. 

ALISON BARTON (hialisonbarton.com)

Science and Faith

How do science and faith overlap in your life? 

If you're interested in exploring that question via a novel, I suggest you pick up Transcendent Kingdom (2020). Using the intersection of neuroscience, addiction, and depression, Yaa Gyasi tells a memoir-like family tale which gently prodded me to consider how faith and science are not as mutually exclusive as I've often made them. 

I don't know about you, but this long-lapsed Catholic, sometimes Unitarian, aspiring Buddhist struggles to square a strong belief in science with the many unexplainable miracles of the natural world and the unending mystery of bad choices we all make on occasion. Gyasi's protagonist faces those challenges and others, pushing her to question her rejection of her mother's unswerving faith. As the reader tags along with this talented young author, it's clear the novel's central dilemma has no solution. And that tantalizing ambiguity - carried through to the final sentences - prompted me to re-examine my scientific lens even more intensely. I need more than science to help me deal with the randomness of life. How about you?  

Any book that guides me away from being reflexively skeptical is a book I can endorse. Transcendent Kingdom is that kind of book.  

Declarations on Independence Day

As someone prone to criticize but slow to praise the United States, today seems an ideal day to reverse that paradigm. Taking anything for granted, even a country, is short sighted. Join me. What are your declarations on Independence Day?

* I'm proud of the bill of rights and especially partial to the first amendment declaring freedom of religion, speech, press, and assembly. For all our arguments, where would we be without those freedoms?

* While on the Constitution, I'm real fond of the checks and balances established there. Anytime one of the three branches lets me down or oversteps its bounds, it's nice to know the other two are there to provide ballast. It's a pretty cool set-up, don't you think?

* Though I know it's hokey and, I'm also aware lots of people were dragged here against their will, I'm proud of how the U.S. continues to (mostly) welcome people from all over the world. Lots of challenges go with that "give us your tired..." motto, but July 4th reminds me how this country has made that work as well as most.

A Wonderful & Surprising Re-Entry

There's no question that growing up with the Temptations music helped to make Ain't Too Proud To Beg a peak Broadway experience. If Covid hadn't shut down the world soon after I saw it in February 2020, it's possible I would have made my first-ever return visit to a show. 

Because my exposure to Alicia Keys's music has been quite limited, my enthusiasm about seeing Hell's Kitchen was muted. But I'm always up for hearing new music and I'd been blown away recently when a friend introduced me to an all-vocal version of Empire State of Mind featuring just Keys. Still, my last Broadway show had been over four years ago and that one had me reliving my early musical life with the Temps.  

My ambivalence dissipated the moment Hell's Kitchen began. If jukebox musicals are your jam, this is a show to see. Anchored by Keys's infectious music, the dynamic singing and electrifying choreography brought new life to an oft-told story of a young person finding herself. I was never out of the spell and moved several times, first by the Act One closer - Perfect Way to Die. The penultimate song - No One - re-purposed as a mother/daughter duet, and the rousing finale, Empire State of Mind, were unimprovable.  My new experiences with the latter have catapulted it into the musical stratosphere alongside some of my all-time favorites. 

I'd enjoy hearing your reaction if/when you see Hell's Kitchen. What a wonderful and surprising re-entry to the Great White Way this was for me.  

Conversational Hell

For those of us who do not live alone in a cave, an occasional visit to conversational hell is an unavoidable fact of life. What are your strategies when you've found yourself unable to escape a conversational situation that has you involuntarily grinding your teeth?

I'm not asking about the far-too-frequent political garbage all of us routinely face in our contentious present. Instead, I'm curious what you do when you've been trapped by one or more of the following types:

* the over-explainer

* the know-it-all

* the clueless, aka "I'll fill every available conversational space with jabbering, mostly about me"

My visits to conversational hell have been infrequent enough to be tolerable. But some recent experiences were so egregious I was desperately searching for a new way to escape, short of bolting from my seat screaming. In what was supposed to be a book discussion - for at least twenty painful minutes - I worked on a flat affect look in a vain attempt to hide my disbelief at the incessant rambling of a clueless prattler. Then just a few days later, as a prelude that went nowhere, an over-explainer launched into an extended dissertation about the merits of rap. Because of where I was seated, unnoticeable egress was not an option. I put my head down - the flat affect approach was impossible - and wrote in my journal. I filled three pages; he was still obtusely pontificating.  

Now about the know-it-all. I suspect there have been instances when others may have felt they were in conversational hell with know-it-all Pat. Mea culpa. And perhaps because I've worn that hat, it's possible my radar is oversensitive to other types who occasionally corner each of us. In the end, the many hours I've spent in conversational heaven - and my own work mitigating the know-it-all to ensure people enjoy conversing with me - make me grateful for 99.5% of my conversations. Hell can be hot but it's preferable to a cave.               

Miracles of the Natural World

I'm still buzzing from the thrill of having a butterfly land on my nose during a recent visit to the vivarium at the Museum of Natural History. Thanks to magnifying glasses located all around this magical place, I was able to closely examine the delicate lines of several species of butterflies, a new experience for me. Many of those lines looked as though they'd been painted on with a fine brush. And my favorite part? The awe in the eyes of every giggling child roaming around that room. Never been to a vivarium? I encourage you to add it your list. You will not be disappointed.

 

My vivarium experience also delivered an unexpected bonus. It deepened my appreciation for my wife's unflagging evangelism about the critical role native plants play in any local ecology. Gardens full of native plants - like the one in front of our home - help ensure butterfly populations thrive. Does anyone object to more butterflies? Standing still in my wife's garden or watching enchanted children covered in butterflies in a vivarium are two excellent reminders of miracles the natural world bestows on all who willingly embrace them.   

   

   

Degrees of Darkness

Each of us has our own definition of what constitutes dark, be it a book, a film, a conversation, etc. Differing definitions aside, I've learned the hard way that it's sometimes wise to issue warnings. The book I'm recommending today - if not capital "D" dark - will never appear on anyone's list of light reads.   

"He doesn't plan these things. He only acts and each action remains separate and complete in itself: the fucking, the killing, the shitting, the eating. They could come in any order at all. No one is prior to or superior to the rest."

Since finishing The North Water weeks ago, I've vacillated about breaking my longstanding practice of avoiding offensive language here. But that graphic passage - a succinct distillation of the psychopath inhabiting Ian McGuire's 2016 novel - seems to me an ideal way to help any reader decide if they want to spend time with this book. Is it dark? If you choose to read it, you decide. Is it narratively thrilling? It is. Is the choice of third person voice perfect? Yes. Is it compelling from first sentence ("Behold the man.") to last? Without question. This is Melville without the sidebars, Cormac McCarthy without the nihilism, Donald Ray Pollock without the grotesquerie, entwined in a primal tale pitting evil vs. less-than-heavenly. 

Although I'm often uncertain when finishing a book how long it will stay with me, I had no doubt after reading the final sentence of The North Water that this story of survival at any cost would be with me for some time. I remain haunted. 

"He feels a moment of fear, and then, in its wake, as the fear fades and loses its force, an unexpected stab of loneliness and need."

Words for the Ages: Line Thirty-One

"Love shows that God has a sense of humor."

Since the advent of the written word, writers of every variety have tried to define love. Which of those definitions have come closest for you? 

Though more a comment than a definition, the words that open this post - from a Joe Jackson song entitled Stranger Than Fiction - nail an essential and enduring truth about love. Although Jackson's lyrics are an acquired taste, I believe this terse nugget snugly fits the criteria for words for the ages: it has the ring of lasting truth, is brief enough to be easily recalled, and stands alone. And the lyric that sets up this gem has the sardonic edge Jackson is known for: "And when love grows, it's like a flower or a tumor."

Got another Joe Jackson lyric you'd nominate as words for the ages? Or, getting back to love, how about a lyric by a different composer you think comes close to capturing that hard-to-define word? 

Grandpa Hits the Jackpot

I've had a life filled with sustained pleasures - satisfying work, enduring passions, rich and long-lasting friendships. In the father's sweepstakes? I hit the jackpot.

Except for a temper that sometimes gets the better of me, nearly every other lesson my dad taught me through example has helped me successfully navigate my fortunate life. He modeled the importance of loyalty, hard work, and lifelong learning. If he ever wavered in showing me unconditional love, I don't remember it. 

As a father, I've been equally fortunate. My daughter is the most emotionally intelligent person I know. She is talented, compassionate, and funny. I also see in her all the same good stuff my father passed along to me. I'm certain my dad would have been just as proud of what she's accomplished in her life as I am. I'm grateful he was around for her first eight years.   

Later this year, I'll be a grandfather myself for the first time. Without exception, every grandparent I've ever met has raved about this later-in-life experience. And I hope to have more time with my grandson than my dad did with my daughter. But one thing is certain, no matter how much time I end up having with him. He'll know Grandpa hit the jackpot three times.  

Suffering School

Long ago, I settled on an ego-preserving definition of what "going viral" means in the blogosphere. I'll spare you the numbers I use to prop myself up. But checking my cumulative stats just once a year helps prolong the fantasy, especially with Blogger's nasty interface intruding via thrusting those daily numbers at me. That daily pain is invariably mitigated whenever I get reader comments - online or off - bringing me to today's mission. 

notesfromsufferingschool.substack.com

Please open the link above. All six entries are worth reading; my favorite is entitled Suffering School Semester Abroad. The one most closely related to today's solipsistic reflection from the bell curve is entitled To My One Substack Subscriber, although it's much funnier and also has a cute picture.  

At minimum, I believe you'll enjoy the honesty, humor, and vulnerability in any entry you choose to read. But back to me. If you comment either here or - even better - on an entry from Notes from Suffering School, you'll be helping preserve my fantasy about breaking through in the blogosphere. Don't tell me that's not tempting. 

Questions from the Seesaw

"Early in life, I made a choice; I chose honest arrogance vs. hypocritical humility." - Frank Lloyd Wright    

My first thought upon seeing those words early this year at Taliesin West? Good for you, Frank. 

I immediately wrote Wright's words in my journal. In my first several attempts using them as the centerpiece of a blog post, I didn't get far. Given Wright's notoriety, I had difficulty justifying any honest arrogance of mine, considering his massive legacy. Insecure thoughts hampered me every time I tried to frame a coherent post claiming his words as a viable credo. Then, each unfinished blog post pushed Wright's words further back into journal purgatory.  

Such has been my multi-month seesaw. I recall those words, an internal dialogue begins, no resolution is forthcoming. That dialogue persists to this day. I've been called arrogant at least a few times. Have you? No one who knows me well would likely describe me as humble. How about you? Did I make a choice early in life - as Wright did - to land on the side of arrogance? I don't know. Did you make that choice? Is my continuing struggle perhaps connected to the two adjectives in Wright's formulation i.e., honest and hypocritical? Do you see yourself anywhere in Wright's words? Which would you prefer being called - honestly arrogant or hypocritically humble? 

Finally, if you were to take a poll of people who know you well, on which side of Wright's formulation do you think the majority would place you?        

My Day & My Dad's Day, Eighty Years Apart

A little while ago, after getting out of my comfortable bed and putting on some clean, dry clothes, I brushed my teeth. I then had a simple breakfast - juice, toast, hot coffee. I'm now looking forward to enjoying my day. 

I don't know what my Father climbed out of on the morning of June 6, 1944 but I'm guessing it wasn't real comfortable. Wouldn't be at all surprised if he skipped brushing his teeth that morning. If his clothes were clean or dry when he put them on, they didn't stay that way for long. Breakfast? K-rations, perhaps. Juice or coffee? Unlikely.

Though I can't imagine what the rest of my dad's day was like on Normandy Beach eighty years ago, I'm quite certain he wasn't looking forward to it. I will never experience anything even remotely like what he did that day. Writing this to honor what he lived through is not enough. But it's the best I've got to offer this moment. And I owe him - and all the others who were on that beach that day - at least that much. 

A Lingering Tidbit

"I don't know what I'll do with myself when I retire." 

Although not his exact words, I'm confident that was the essence of a remark a neighbor made to me many years back. Isn't it peculiar how tidbits from otherwise inconsequential conversations linger? Do you have an example of a lingering tidbit to share here? Have you ever given thought to the reason(s) your tidbit has remained with you?  

My tidbit has surfaced repeatedly almost from the day I left the full-time work world in 2010. For example, soon after getting up today, I felt grateful anticipating what the next few days look like for me. Nothing complicated: Lots of reading and guitar, meeting some friends to discuss books, time in NYC with my wife, writing a blog post or two, visiting myself via meditation. The simple richness of my life brought my tidbit to mind. 

 

As the day progressed, little things began amplifying my gratitude. First, an e-mail from a new friend asking me why a book we'd both read was meaningful to me. I pulled out the book, re-read some underlined passages. We agreed to talk later in the day. Then, Manfred Mann's cover of I Think It's Going To Work Out Fine played on the radio on my drive to get coffee. After that song transported me, I mused about the mental detour and then wrote about it in my journal. Later indulged in some Atlas riffing when an essay I'd started reading before opening my e-mail reminded me I was ignorant of the pertinent geography mentioned. And so went the rest of this special not-so-special day.  

I suspect my tidbit has lingered with me largely because I had a strong sense many years back what I would be doing when I retired. 

I've Got Your Number (#4)

Ready for the latest challenge in this series? 

Start by identifying the twentieth century year linked with the four phrases below, each extracted from a well-known piece of popular culture. The four are listed chronologically:

1.) Oh what a night

2.) He loved Big Brother

3.) No one ever left alive

4.) Tonight I'm going to party

Next, answer the three questions below related to the number of years separating #1 from #2, #2 from #3, and #3 from #4. 

What popular game - also referred to by a rhyming word - matches the number of years between #1 and #2?

What do the songwriters Marvin Hamlisch and Harry Nillson have in common with the number of years separating #2 and #3? 

Append "92" to the number of years separating #3 and #4. What historical significance is attached to this date? 

Bonus question for the truly geeky among you: Which well-known Frank Sinatra song did I initially consider as an alternate title for the 4th iteration in this nerdy series?

May 30, 1920

Even though both have been gone many years, I'm still struck each year when the birthday of one of my parents comes around. I'm certain I'm not alone in this regard. If you are lucky enough to still have your parents with you, I hope you honor them regularly, on birthdays and otherwise.

Although I don't know anyone with a parent who is one hundred and four - the age Mom would be had she lived to this day - I know several people with parents doing reasonably well despite their advanced age. I have one friend who turns ninety-four later this year and my list of active friends who are eighty and older continues to grow each year. I lost my mother way too soon. 

I've often wished my mom had the chance to meet my wife, lived long enough to watch her seven grandchildren grow up, been there when I got my master's degree at forty-eight. There are many landmarks I would have liked her to witness. Mostly, I would like to have had a lot more time to simply hang out with her. 

Another Keeper

Immediately after leaving the full-time work world in 2010, I committed to the practice of keeping a book journal. For those of you who do the same - no matter how long you've been doing so - tell me: What have you learned about yourself, books in general, your reading tastes, or anything else, via your book journal?

One starting prompt I frequently use in my journals is "How did I come to this book?". Weeks back, while beginning an entry for William Boyd's Trio (2020) using that prompt, I recalled my book club's muted reaction to a Boyd spy thriller I'd read and enjoyed a great deal entitled Waiting for Sunrise (2012). 

And my journal entry for that earlier book brought back to me - full force - the intensity of my reaction to Brazzaville Beach (1990), my first exposure to Boyd, soon after I started my book journal practice. In that moment - before starting to write about Trio - I realized how my practice has enriched me in several ways. When a book knocks me out - as Brazzaville Beach did - and I take the time to capture why in my journal, that author gets more firmly rooted in my memory. I usually return, more than once, as I have with William Boyd. And, re-reading a rapturous entry - like the one I wrote about Brazzaville Beach - brings back that rapture. What a gift that is. 

Finally, later journal entries for books by the same author are often informed and frequently shaped by earlier ones. Put another way, writing about my reaction to a book deepens my discernment as a reader. For example, here's part of my entry for Trio: "Not quite as masterful as Brazzaville Beach or as suspenseful as Waiting for Sunrise but engaging and enjoyable end-to-end. William Boyd is a keeper." 

That Name Thing

"I'm so bad with names."

How many times have you heard someone say that? Better yet, how recently did you hear someone say it? If you've been in a social situation with more than a few people recently, even money you heard at least one person say it then. Was it you who said it? How is it possible for so many people to be so bad with names?   

I don't believe it is possible. There are clearly a small minority of people who have a facility for recalling names. No doubt, a similar small minority exist who truly struggle with it. That leaves the rest of us in the middle. We repeatedly tell ourselves we're bad with names. We say it to others who say the same thing back to us. We frequently think it - or even say it - near to the moment when someone is first introducing themselves. Anyone detect a pattern yet in this textbook case of self-fulfilling prophecy? 

If our attention is anywhere else in the precise moment when a person new to us first says their name, the chance we will recall that name is close to zero. The many memory techniques we've been exposed to - association, using a pneumonic, repeating a name back soon after learning it, etc. - are all helpful and well tested. But no technique can replace 100% laser-focused attention in the moment. Total focus on only the name being said guarantees nothing. But if our minds are anywhere else in that moment - including how bad we are with names - we're destined to forever continue saying how bad we are with names. 

Words for the Trash Can

Since May 2017 I've published thirty blog posts under the heading Words for the Ages, each featuring a short phrase lifted from a song lyric. All the phrases I've selected capture what I feel is some universal truth. My criteria have remained the same for seven years: The phrase must be terse enough to be easily remembered and also able to stand alone, i.e., not necessarily dependent on a rhyme to complete the pithy thought being expressed. And each time I've ask for your nominations of other lyrics from whichever songwriter I've featured. 

Today I'm making a different request. Please nominate a terse lyric - by any songwriter - that you feel can top the bolded one directly below for wrongheaded arrogance. Think of this as the antithesis of words for the ages. Words for the trash can, perhaps? 

"Everybody knows the world is full of stupid people."

The first thing I wondered months back upon hearing Ryan Hamilton's obnoxious pronouncement in his otherwise OK song Banditos was how old he was. Early in my reflections, it's likely I was giving this up-and-coming songwriter the benefit of the doubt via recalling some of the stupid things I said - maybe even thought - in my young adult years, although even then I didn't pen a lyric that dumb. Then as more time went by, the "everybody" in this lyric began gnawing at me. Aside from being reliably inaccurate, the lazy use of absolutes signals to others a writer who has trouble with nuance. In a young person, this is troubling. In an older person, inexcusable. 

Age aside, did Hamilton have his tongue in his cheek when he wrote this phrase? I hope he did. Still, I've made it my mission to steer clear of the close-minded, black & white, misanthropic people who have a worldview that lines up with his boneheaded lyric. I'll not be accepting a lunch invitation from Mr. Hamilton anytime soon.        

Prolonging a Reading Experience

A good friend and fellow bookworm recently remarked how certain books beg to be discussed. Only later did it occur to me that a book that doesn't beg to be discussed is - almost by definition - probably not worth reading in the first place. 

Siri Hustvedt's 2015 novel What I Loved is packed with provocative ideas. The critical elements like narrative momentum, organic character development, and strong sense of time/place are masterfully handled. But it's the depth of the author's insights - about grief, loyalty, the fickle NYC art scene, friendship, disillusionment, redemption - that will compel you to find others who have finished this treasure so that you can discuss it. 

"We manufacture stories, after all, from the fleeting sensory material that bombards us at every instant, a fragmented series of pictures, conversations, odors, and the touch of things and people. We delete most of it to live with some semblance of order, and the reshuffling of memory goes on until we die."

I hope that passage acts as further enticement for you, one example of the muscular prose infusing this novel of ideas. When the friend who made that remark about books begging to be discussed also said she felt smarter reading What I Loved, her words rang true. If you end up reading it, please reach out to me here or otherwise. The one discussion I've already had about it was great, but I'd welcome prolonging this exceptional reading experience indefinitely.              

Preservation Vs. Progress

Although I've resisted being a fatalist most of my life, the conflict between preservation of the natural world and the inexorable march of man-made progress seems to be an insoluble one. And the most disheartening aspect of this insoluble conflict? Choices I routinely make that land squarely on the side of progress despite claims that the preservation of the natural world is sacred to me. 

It's easy to label others as hypocrites when they say one thing and do the opposite. It's also intellectually lazy doing so if we don't routinely examine our own choices and see how well they line up with what we claim are our values. For example, if the natural world is that sacred to me, how to reconcile my use of an automobile? I let myself off the hook occasionally because I've embraced the use of a hybrid vehicle. I also choose often to walk or ride my bike locally in place of driving. But in this instance, progress - embodied by the automobile with its demonstrably negative effect on the environment - clearly has the upper hand over the natural world. Like many people, my way of coping with this disconnect - as well as others that plague me in the preservation vs. progress dichotomy - is to rationalize. I live in the modern world, not the horse-and-buggy era, automobiles are an inescapable part of life, blah, blah, blah. Who am I kidding, aside from myself? Inescapable? 

Meanwhile, I can hear the realists/pragmatists/empiricists from here in the cheap seats. That chorus screams: Get real, Pat; find some middle ground, tree hugger; get out of the way of man's dominion, dreamer. Though I haven't yet surrendered, each uncomfortable compromise I make to accommodate progress at the expense of the loss of more of the natural world hurts a little more than the last. 

Who Was That Dunce Mom?

The month of May will always belong to my mom, Marie Elizabeth Trautvetter Barton.

Mom was born May 30, 1920 and taken way too soon from all of us on November 17, 1977. I was a self-absorbed, broken young adult when she died. One detail I can clearly recall about her wake shames me even today. When someone who had recently hurt me came to pay her respects, I used my grief as a weapon against her. 

"Somewhere I had misplaced my son, had lost sight of his memory, which was the one truth that remained after his death, and had instead followed something false, which was not worthy of him."  

I realized just moments ago when starting to write this post why that sentence from Reservation Road hit me so hard when I read it several weeks back. My shame from 1977 returns full force by simply replacing the word "son" with "mother" and changing the pronouns. Who was that dunce just a few days from his twenty-eighth birthday?  

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. When I return to honor your birthday later this month, I'll recount a more ennobling story. Promise.       

The Miracle of Enduring Relationships

As my wife and I approach the half-century mark in our partnership, I catch myself increasingly reflecting on the miracle of enduring relationships.

Like all of you, I've known plenty of couples who have split up. And in the fickle world of celebrity, those acrimonious breakups are the tales that get the most attention. But without fail, stories of the rich and famous couples who have stood the test of time appeal to me a great deal more. The same holds true in my own social circle. I'm much more interested in hearing how grounded couples I know well have weathered their squalls vs. getting dirt on any breakup. What strategies have you observed in solid couples you know that appear to help them keep things purring? If you are in a partnership like that, what have you & your partner learned that get you through the inevitable rough patches, the occasional "feeling-in-a-rut" periods, and the unavoidable conflict that can arise with the person with whom you spend the most one-on-one time? 

I'm not speaking here of people who hang in there out of habit or lassitude. Like you, I've also known couples like that. I'm talking about folks who still value each other after decades of conversation, including hearing each other's stories dozens - perhaps hundreds - of times. Folks who support, affirm, and nourish one another. Folks who take vows like "in sickness and in health" seriously. My gratitude for my wife comes most sharply into focus after I've spent extended time with people aside from her, like a long weekend or even a vacation with friends or traveling companions or a holiday or time away with other family. For the most part, I enjoy those interactions. But I'm also relieved when the time with others is ending and I know that soon I'll return to spending time alone with my life partner. 

That consistently pleasant anticipation may not itself qualify as a miracle. But after nearly a half-century feeling that way, it sure seems close to one.

The Instructor Did What?

Reflections From The Bell Curve: Dangling Conversations with Music Lovers

Tomorrow concludes the reprise of a six-hour Paul Simon class I first delivered eight years ago. Of the twenty-three people who signed up for the class, sixteen have taken a previous class of mine, either at the same college or elsewhere. 

Among the things I'm most grateful for is the unbridled enthusiasm this community of repeat students brings to every one of my classes. On more than a few occasions, their enthusiasm - combined with my inexhaustible passion for music - has helped unleash classroom antics that take me by surprise. Although I rarely regret appearing to be semi-possessed in those moments, I do sometimes wonder later what the newer students think about my manic intensity. 

For example, while playing the concluding song in last week's session, I discovered how effortlessly the swivel chair at the front of the classroom moved. With lots of space, my music-loving community all around, and the kinetic horn parts in You Can Call Me Al inspiring me, I was soon spinning around that room like a deranged Fred Astaire, the chair acting as Ginger Rogers, without high-heels. It wasn't until the drive home that I began imagining conversations newer students might have with others if they ever tried to recreate what they'd just seen. The instructor did what?  

#72: The Mt. Rushmore Series

Though this iteration of my longest running series will be catnip for movie buffs, I'm confident saying even the most casual film watcher has been struck at least once by a totally unexpected portrayal by a well-known actor. Film geeks like me, please try to build an entire monument. For the rest of you: If you think one or more portrayals you've seen fit the criteria below, please join the fun. There's always a chance I might have missed a movie you cite, giving me an excuse to further indulge my film jones.  

First, think of film actors who have largely played "types" for the bulk of their careers. Begin with earlier movie history by recalling the roles people like Cary Grant or Katherine Hepburn played in most of their movies. A bit later, think perhaps of the kinds of parts Paul Newman, Steve McQueen, or Faye Dunaway typically played, especially during their heydays. Eliminate from your mental picture the chameleons who changed type often - e.g., Bette Davis, Dustin Hoffman, Meryl Streep. Also set aside any portrayal where prosthetics did part of the job of lifting an actor or actress out of the kind of role you'd grown accustomed to seeing them portray. For example, discard Charlize Theron's deservedly praised turn in Monster. Now, given those parameters, who - in your mind - belongs on a Mt. Rushmore of unforgettable "against-type" portrayals? Drum roll please, for my indisputably brilliant choices, alphabetical by last name of the actor, and showing a clear modern bias: 

1.) Cameron Diaz in Being John Malkovich (1999) - In this quirky Spike Jonze film, the perpetually dazzling Diaz is the frumpy housewife of John Cusack, a frustrated puppeteer. 

2.) Harrison Ford in Mosquito Coast (1986) - Ford's everyman hero type morphs into an unhinged megalomanic in Peter Weir's faithful adaptation of the eponymous Paul Theroux novel.  

3.) Tom Hanks in Road to Perdition (2002) - Our modern-day Cary Grant becomes a mob assassin in this dark, brooding film directed by Sam Mendes.

4.) Denzel Washington in Training Day (2001) - Although his roles have arguably had him working outside of "type" more than Diaz, Ford, or Hanks, this ferocious award-winning portrayal of an implacably unlikeable corrupt cop - a part far removed from most of Washington's work - earns him a spot on my Mt. Rushmore. Director: Antoine Fuqua. 

I await your nominations.

The Hardest Subject?

Novels that have the death of a child at their core are inherently problematic. Is there is any event in the life of a parent more damaging than losing a child? Any writer attempting to convey that trauma in a meaningful way - without descending into the maudlin - is faced with a daunting task.

"The floor was opening up under my feet and nobody seemed to notice it but me." 

I saw the movie version of John Burnham Schwartz's 1998 novel Reservation Road around the time of its 2007 release. I recall being riveted end-to-end and remember how the final confrontation scene between the two fathers - played by Joaquin Phoenix and Mark Ruffalo - shook me up and remained with me for months afterward. When I closed the book several weeks ago, I was relieved and saddened that the novel ended exactly as the film had. Relieved because it was the perfect way to conclude this raw and powerfully written tale. Saddened because, having seen the film first, the impact of the book's brave ending was muted for me.

"She was a husk; she'd never been so empty. 'You're wrong Sergeant. I'm not upset. I'm hardly even here.' " 

For me, the master stroke in Schwartz's novel was his decision to toggle two first-person accounts alongside a third-person account. The first italicized sentence above is in the first-person voice of the father who loses his ten-year-old son in a hit-and-run. It is Ethan Learner's voice that begins and ends the book. The four italicized sentences after that begin with nine flawlessly chosen words - only two longer than one syllable - describing in third person what a mother who has just lost her son would feel like, followed by Grace Learner's matter-of-fact words to the State Trooper investigating the case. 

The other first-person voice in the novel belongs to Dwight Arno - also the father of a ten-year-old boy - the man who accidentally kills Josh Learner. Reviewing all I underlined while preparing to write this post, I struggled to decide which one passage to use here to highlight how skillfully Schwartz depicted Dwight's anguish throughout. In the end, I settled on two. The first concludes Part One of the novel and the other is from the penultimate chapter - part of the confrontation scene I referenced above - the last time we hear Dwight's voice.

"There are heroes, and there are the rest of us. There comes a time when you just let go the ghost of the better person you might have been."

"I had taken from him everything there was to take, and had wanted none of it, had hoped and tried to avoid it, had regretted it deeply. But I had taken his boy just the same."

Read this book before you watch the film. But wait until you are ready before doing either. Both will take a toll. 

Gardeners On Fire

Few things get me as reliably juiced as being around passionate people. Even when the passion in question is something that doesn't ignite me, I have trouble staying unengaged. Don't you find this kind of energy contagious? What passion - one not high on your list - were you most recently exposed to where the folks around you seemed to be on fire? 

https://mtcubacenter.org/

Late last week I got lit up by a bus full of self-described plant nerds. In her capacity as the founder of the Monmouth County Chapter of the Native Plant Society of New Jersey (NPSNJ), my wife organized a trip to Mt. Cuba Center, a non-profit botanical garden located in Hockessin, Delaware. Not every conversation on the two-hour ride to/from Mt. Cuba centered on gardens, ground cover, invasive species, etc. But most of the conversations I overheard that strayed too far from the passion of most everyone on the bus circled back quickly. And everything covered by the Mt. Cuba staff in the hours spent at this beautifully serene place further nourished that shared passion. Despite the little time I've ever spent digging, planting, or weeding, it was hard to resist being pulled in.       

What sets you on fire?  

A Path to Manageable Lists

After several years of steady whittling, I'm now approaching the point where my reading list no longer feels oppressively overwhelming. I'm additionally pleased to report that since leaving the full-time work world, I've finished at least one book by many authors I'd told myself I'd sample "eventually" from a list I'd been maintaining for at least forty years. Though a few longstanding, ambitious reading goals remain unmet, I'm satisfied with how focused my reading life has been since 2010. One factor above all has helped keep me on this path - an enhanced vetting process for books or authors recommended to me. 

Beginning about the same time I began using a book journal, I jettisoned the habit of adding either a book or an author to my list without first learning a few key things about the person doing the recommending. What were the last several books that moved that person? Which authors are on this reader's "go-to" list? I even began asking more targeted questions of my reading posse a few years back. For example: What specifically made this book you're recommending to me so special? It's not that I'd lost any trust in my posse. But my discernment continues to deepen and time has grown increasingly precious. Though I don't keep score of the individual batting averages of my posse, if I sense any of the four have dipped below Ted Williams territory, a probationary period is now possible. Just saying. 

With respect to admitting new members into the posse, that bar is both high and non-negotiable. A new recommender must go five for five to start. Currently, there is one strong potential contender who has, to date, gone three for three. This individual recommended This is Happiness (2019) - Niall Williams, Say Nothing (2019) - Patrick Radden Keefe, and Profiles in Ignorance (2022) - Andy Borowitz, an impressive hat trick. If the streak continues with two more winners, this person will be the first new posse inductee since 2014. Stay tuned.  

Reflections From The Bell Curve: This Is Happiness 

Reflections From The Bell Curve: An Antidote for Lazy Thinking

47 vs. 74

Ever mess around with the numbers that make up your age as a thought/memory experiment? Why not join me as I do so today? Reversing your numbers - as I will be doing - is intriguing because you can end up with a number higher or lower than your current age. This means you are either recalling an earlier year in your life - an easier, if potentially slippery task - or trying to envision an older version of you, an act of imagination.  

If your numbers are identical, e.g., 33 or 66, add or multiply for today's experiment, using whichever younger age feels more vivid in your memory. Those of you on the cusp of a decade, e.g., 40 or 50, can't multiply unless you want the experiment to be science fiction. Other options = skip the exercise, pretend you're a year older or younger, or dig really deep and pull some stuff from early childhood. 

At 47, I was in the middle of my master's program, doing adult education, mostly in the social justice field. Because my work and degree required it, my reading diet at the time was almost exclusively non-fiction. One memorable book from that era: Two Nations by Andrew Hacker. I'd recently dissolved what would turn out to be my last band, returning to solo gigs. My listening diet was shifting a bit, as jazz supplanted other genres and guitarists like Jim Hall took center stage. I was fully involved in the life of my daughter who was then in grammar school. Many movies of the time I enjoyed were ones I could watch with her, e.g., The Little Mermaid.  

Your turn.   

An Antidote for Lazy Thinking

"The romantic idyll of a revolutionary movement is easier to sustain when there is no danger that one's own family members might get blown up on a trip to the grocery store."

I recommend Say Nothing: A True Story of Murder and Memory in Northern Ireland (2019) without reservation. Author Patrick Radden Keefe is an exceptional writer, masterful storyteller, and rigorous researcher. I'm looking forward to reading more of his work. 

The murder of Jean McConville - a Belfast mother of ten - is the scaffolding on which Keefe constructs his compelling tale. But true to its subtitle, memory plays an equal role in this remarkable book. With the Troubles in Northern Ireland haunting and distorting - in equal measure - the memories of many people who lived through those traumatic years, the whole truth about McConville's abduction and murder remains unknown, even with two prominent players confessing their part in the crime. 

And the "calibrated sophistry" of Gerry Adams - who wouldn't sit for an interview with Keefe as he researched the book - boggles the mind. Despite mountains of evidence to the contrary, to this day the ex-Sinn Fein representative still maintains he was never a member of the Provisional Wing of the Irish Republican Army. After reading Say Nothing, I could picture Adams's delight when he first heard Kellyanne Conway refer to "alternative facts". Words to live by for a maniacal dissembler like Gerry. 

The shrewd observations Patrick Keefe sprinkles throughout his brilliant book - like the sentence from Chapter 19 opening this post - chastened me. Looking for easy answers, ignoring shades of gray, and reflexively taking sides are blunt ways of looking at complex problems. More than once, the armchair revolutionary in me has blustered about conflicts akin to the Troubles and offered glib solutions for other intractable problems that plague our world. By continuing to read books like Say Nothing, I'm hopeful I'll begin to mitigate that type of lazy thinking. 

Forty-Six and Counting

At the start of 2024, I decided this year my blog would mark major holidays as well as celebrate many of the significant personal dates from my life. Significant-wise, April 17 is near the top of the heap.

About one week after meeting my life partner at a bar where I was playing at the time, we had our first date on April 17, 1978. Dinner at Long John's in Atlantic Highlands - great popovers, BTW - followed by drinks at the Union Jack in South River. The musician friend who was playing there that night - Glenn Burtnick - worked the same circuit as me in those years. 

Anyone who has ever heard our origin story knows the rest. During dinner, after noticing the fresh fragrance in her hair, I asked an inane question: "What shampoo do you use?" Her unaffected response - "Whatever is in the shower" - thoroughly enchanted me. Later that night, I told her I was going to marry her. 

Forty-six years later, that decision remains one of my best.

Reflections From The Bell Curve: Acknowledging Our Tribe

    

Another Reason to Get Out of Dodge, Frequently

Which pieces of yourself do you notice shifting - even slightly - when you are away from home for more than a few days? Are you - like me - perhaps a bit more relaxed? If so, how does that increased relaxation manifest? More patience? More openness? More clarity?  

Since leaving the full-time work world fourteen years ago, I've been indulging my wanderlust as much as my budget allows. During my most recent trip I found myself paying more attention to little shifts in my normal behaviors. I observed myself more closely when interacting with fellow travelers and listened more carefully to the way I spoke of my wife when conversing with them. It wasn't until later when I tried capturing the tone of those interactions and conversations in my journal that I fully recognized the slightly different Pat that was frequently showing up - a bit kinder, more measured, definitely more appreciative. A Pat I liked better.    

And that leaves me with a question to pose to you on my behalf. If you've discovered better pieces of yourself when you're away for a while, what strategies have helped you maintain that state of grace after you return home? Thanks in advance for any suggestions you offer. Finding ways to hold onto traveling Pat after he's home might assist him later in minimizing at least a few marital brushfires, especially the ones he ignited.      

Living Life Aloud

Although I've embarrassed my daughter more times than I can count via my habit of engaging strangers in conversations - on the streets, in restaurants, anywhere really - I don't plan to ever stop doing this. Truth be told, not only is this habit something I like about myself, on more than a few occasions I've connected in a genuine way with people. The fact that it's unlikely I'll ever interact again with any of these strangers is irrelevant. The human connection is what energizes me. And who's to say the same thing won't be true for one or more of these strangers? What have any of us got to lose by trying to connect in this way? 

While making a few trips to my car carrying my equipment after teaching a class at a local college, it was hard to ignore the two young women sitting in the lobby engaged in an animated conversation filled with infectious laughter. With a big smile on my face I joked with them about keeping the noise down, a remark that elicited more laughter from both. Before leaving the building, I engaged them further - this is the part that drives my daughter to distraction - suggesting they would benefit from retaining their contagious enthusiasm as their lives unfold. I briefly shared how often in my younger life well-meaning but misguided naysayers would tell me to "tone it down" or words to that effect when my enthusiasm struck one of them as "too much". In my experience, the stifling of positive energy - like those two young women embodied - is an all-too-common occurrence. Why not encourage enthusiasm and reward the passion of people who live their lives aloud? Who benefits when the energy that makes the world a more vibrant place is shushed?  How can shaming enthusiastic, passionate people ever be worthwhile? 

It was obvious both young women were moved as our interaction ended. This touched me deeply. Please forgive your old dog Dad, sweetheart. Learning a new trick to replace this habit is probably not in the cards. 

I've Got Your Number (#3)

Because today's iteration of my newest series is less music-centered than the first two, it's possible my smarty pants friend who quickly solved those two may have more difficulty today. Or maybe not. 

For anyone new to my latest twist in pop culture ephemera, each of the five items below - TV show, film, song, book, etc. - had in its original title a number over fifty. One of the five is wholly correct as noted. Your mission is to first identify that item and also name the artist most closely identified with it. Next, transplant a correct number from three of the items to a different item elsewhere on the list so that original titles are correctly reflected for those three. As with iterations #1 and #2, the remaining item - with its correct number seen nowhere on this list - requires more brainwork. Explanation for the more challenging piece follows the list of five. Ready? Remember, using Google is cheating. 

1). 222 Blows

2.) 400 Pick-Up

3.) 2017: A Space Odyssey

4.) Room 52

5.) 409   

For the remaining item, first supply its correct number. That part is quite easy unless you were asleep or not alive in the mid-20th century and even then, odds are most of you can supply the correct number for this iconic piece of pop culture. Now take the number from that item that can't be used elsewhere on this list and transplant it to a reasonably well-known song by a very well-known pop singer. Hint: The first word of this two-word song title is the name of a city and the song itself mentions neither the city nor the number in its lyric. If anyone - including you, smarty pants - needs a second hint for the remaining item, I'll supply that after a reasonable amount of time. 

I'm standing by. 

In Good Company

The skillful construction of Mercy Street (2022) escaped me until I began writing my book journal entry about Jennifer Haigh's compelling novel. How recently have you had a similar experience as a reader? What was it that brought you to a deeper appreciation for the author's craft? More time to process what you'd read? A conversation? Or, did writing about the book - as I did - get you there?

Although the prose throughout Mercy Street is sturdy ("The couch embraced her like quicksand."), it never intrudes on the straightforward story of Claudia Birch, a semi-adrift thirty something woman who works at an embattled women's health clinic in Boston. Until the final pages I didn't realize how the author had given me just enough of Claudia's back story to make the novel's moving denouement wholly believable. And each piece I learned about the three other main characters drew me in just as effectively. In Haigh's capable hands, the meaningful intersection of these four lives held me from first sentence to last. What a joy it was to be swept along so completely. 

Just before starting Mercy Street, I was browsing in my local library. I had on my mind the names of several authors I wanted to re-visit having read just one novel by each over the last fifteen years, but each of those novels had knocked me out. A few years from now when I'm in a similar browsing mood, unsure what to choose next, I can easily envision Jennifer Haigh's name coming to me then like the names of Leif Enger (Peace Like a River - 2001), Jaimy Gordon (Lord of Misrule - 2010), and Lloyd Jones (Mister Pip - 2006) came to me on my most recent hunt. That's some good company you're in Jennifer.   

Words for the Ages: Line Thirty

"When you trust your television, what you get is what you got."

When John Mayer wrote that lyric for Waiting on the World to Change (2006), which television station(s) do you think he had in mind? Those of us old enough to recall when only a handful of TV stations existed - none of them affiliated with media empire billionaires curating content to ensure we weren't exposed to information that would challenge our worldview - might remember actually trusting much of what we heard on TV. What a quaint notion in an era when TVs assault us 24/7 in every conceivable public space and many people have multiple screens in their homes with angry, divisive pundits incessantly screaming at us to only play in the sandbox with those who share our opinions.    

Arguably, Mayer's lyric may have qualified as words for the ages even in the pre-cable TV era. But there's no question his words fit the 21st century like a glove. And I would submit his words will only grow to be more prescient as our fractured future unfolds. His concise phrase is also of a piece with an oft-repeated layman's definition of insanity: Doing the same thing, the same way, over and over again, and expecting different results. 

I'm not naive enough to think we'll ever return to a time when a phrase like "alternative facts" would make all intelligent people snicker. Sadly, what I'm left with is another phrase I heard years back, a slightly longer version of Mayer's wisdom without a reference to the idiot box, i.e., When you always do what you've always done, you always get what you've always got.  

Dangling Conversations with Music Lovers

What a gift it has been teaching serious music lovers these past ten years. 

A few months back I received an e-mail from one of these music lovers. She wrote me upon learning of the impending release of a two-part documentary series about Paul Simon. If you love his music - as I do almost without reservation - I strongly recommend In Endless Dreams. Though it's possible I might otherwise have learned about the series, I'm still grateful this music lover thought to contact me, especially with The Dangling Conversation - my own six-hour course about Simon - scheduled for a late April reprise at a local college. I can now add material learned from the series, including rich insights director Alex Gibney coaxed out of the modern-day master as he described his process while creating Seven Psalms (2023). Had this music lover not contacted me, much of this fresh anecdotal material about Simon's most recent recording might not have made it into my reprise. 

Developing and delivering these music classes since 2014 has been energizing and rewarding. And the frequent offline interactions and conversations I've had with music lovers have significantly enhanced that reward. Excuse me now as I track down a recent interview Stephen Colbert did with Paul Simon. Want to guess how I came to hear about that?    

Another Tribute to My Hero

I've often wondered what my Dad would have had to say about my blog. Although not an overly private man, he also wasn't temperamentally inclined to be public about many things. That fact alone makes me uncertain how he would have reacted to some of the more personal stuff that I've reflected on here.

On the other hand, from the start, Dad was unreservedly supportive of my interest in becoming a musician. He couldn't provide much financial help but he was often the one who volunteered to drive my high-school band to gigs. And he and my Mom allowed that band to rehearse in the "dining room", a tiny space in our railroad flat on the second floor of a house we shared with Mom's brother and his family on the ground floor and her mother on the third. To this day, I marvel at the tolerance it must have taken for my parents to listen to five out-of-tune teenagers - at close range - loudly playing songs neither one of them probably liked, over and over. Did I mention I learned how to play drums - practicing incessantly - in that same flat?   

I wonder what Dad would have thought about me sharing this family story. Aside from today, his birthday, I've recalled him many times here - on Veteran's Day, D-Day, etc. Sometimes a memory is dislodged, another instance of his unwavering love, and I feel compelled to write about him, my hero in every meaningful way. If he were still with me, perhaps he might have tried to talk me out of this and all my other public tributes to him. I suspect I wouldn't have listened. 

Reviving Our Moribund Mission

Another gratifying by-product of our recent trip to Africa was the opportunity we had to sample the cuisine of several countries that we hadn't yet experienced in our Eat the World mission. That mission began thirteen years ago when I published the post directly below. 

Reflections From The Bell Curve: World Traveling Via Food (To Be Continued)

With the eight new nations added to our list in February - six of which were added visiting one restaurant in Cape Town - we hit a significant milestone: Since March 2011 we've now sampled the cuisine of 102 nations. And for two of those eight - Botswana and Zimbabwe - we ate at local restaurants in the actual countries (South Africa and Namibia were already on our list before the trip), which clearly enhanced the authenticity of the eating experiences. My personal favorites were the Malawi sweet potato cakes and the Zimbabwe amasi herb dip. What was your most recent unique eating experience?

I'm pumped our African adventure helped revived our moribund mission. With about ninety countries left to try, I'm feeling renewed confidence that we might eventually reach our goal. Please let me know if you're aware of a local restaurant serving an off-the-curve cuisine. One helpful hint: Forget North, Central, and South America; we've covered almost all that culinary territory. Best bets for stuff we haven't tried would be obscure, smaller Asian nations, or some landlocked African countries. Next in the queue is a Nepalese restaurant in NYC I've had my eye on for quite a while. What a blast.    

This Is Happiness

My travels with Road Scholar have proven to be a reliable way to learn about worthwhile books. This Is Happiness (2019) is the latest example of an exceptional novel that otherwise might have slipped by me if one of my Road Scholar companions in Africa hadn't recommended it. Not only was I intrigued because author Niall Williams was unfamiliar to me, the more my companion described authors, novels, and short stories he admired, the more certain I felt I could trust his instincts. I didn't have to wait long when reading This Is Happiness to know I was in capable hands. 

"I sometimes think the worst thing a young person can feel is when you can find no answer to the question of what you are supposed to do with this life you've been given." When a sentence grabs me at page thirteen (of 380), I'm all in. "I'm at an age now when in the early mornings I'm often revisited by my own mistakes, stupidities, and unintended cruelties. They sit around the edge of the bed and look at me and say nothing. But I see them well enough." With a narrator able to see himself that clearly, it didn't matter to me that this was going to be another coming-of-age story. It was apparent from that second passage - also early in the book - the wisdom here would be well earned.

Although I raced through This Is Happiness, I don't recommend you do. Savor it. Enjoy the characters and the humor - "...but for the muffled artillery of his gas" - track the luminous prose describing the Irish countryside - "...you stood in the revelation of so many stars you could not credit and felt smaller in body as your soul felt enormous" - marvel at the effortless way this gifted author juxtaposes his bildungsroman with a tale of modernity coming to an insular community. Gather gems like this: "In this life, I-could-see-that-coming and I-couldn't-see-that-coming amount to the same thing, because in neither case did you make a difference." And avoid being put off by what sounds like fatalism in that sentence near the conclusion. In context, I promise, those words help deliver the well-earned wisdom in this timeless and beautifully realized story of love, redemption, forgiveness.   

    

#71: The Mt. Rushmore Series

It's been eleven months since Mt. Rushmore last made an appearance. Please fib and tell me you've been anticipating this latest iteration of my longest running, most prolific series. Today's monument enshrines four transformational musical moments. What shook you enough the first time you heard it that you'll never be quite the same? 

1.) A voice: All it took was hearing that two-syllable name - Roxanne. I even remember saying - either out loud or to myself - Who the hell is that? In my life, the only close competition for a voice that immediately grabbed me like Sting's was the first time I heard Saving All My Love for You. What happened for you when you first heard either Sting or Whitney Houston? 

2.) A guitarist: In the quaint days when people listened to commercial radio, a DJ would often wait until a song was over to tell you the title and - if you got lucky - the artist. Upon first hearing Sultans of Swing, I recall hoping the DJ would give me that minimal information. After learning this new band was called Dire Straits, it was up to me to discover Mark Knopfler's name. His playing has mesmerized me ever since.

3.) An ensemble: Seeing the Mahavishnu Orchestra perform soon after they released their first LP - The Inner Mounting Flame - was as close as I've ever come to having a mystical musical experience. The way these five extraordinary musicians played their impossibly complex compositions was breathtaking. But amazing as that was, when they then began to improvise at breakneck speed - simultaneously - I was changed at a molecular level, musically. 

4.) A bass player: Of the moments on my mountain, my initiation to Jaco Pastorius, did not - unlike the other three - coincide with his explosion into the musical firmament. Jaco had already blown away legions with his earlier work in Weather Report. But when I heard his otherworldly bass playing on Joni Mitchell's masterpiece Hejira, particularly on Refuge of the Roads, I knew a musical comet had just passed. Jaco's early death still saddens me. 

How about you? No need to erect a full mountain or to use any of my categories; it's your monument. But please share with me and others at least one musical moment that rattled you as the four above did me.  

St. James Day or Bust

As 2024 began, I decided my blog should mark - in some fashion - all major holidays over the coming year. Unfortunately, that resolve evaporated when both Valentine's (sorry sweetheart) and President's Day (ditto George and Abe) passed by unremarked. Although spotty Internet service while we were in Africa over most of February was largely to blame for that lapse, the mojo has now returned. Pardon the holiday solipsism that follows. 

Patrick, Martin, Christopher, and Jesus. That's some company my namesake is keeping, right? Today's holiday - using my moniker - has outlasted those commemorating Washington & Lincoln's birthdays; they were demoted to sharing a day and their title. Honor the blasphemous substitution of "Xmas" for Christmas, do you? That brings us down to three names associated with a major holiday = Patrick, Martin & Christopher. How about this? When people mention the holidays celebrated on the third Monday of January and the second Monday of October, are first names generally cited? Aren't you much more likely to hear MLK or Columbus Day? That leaves Patrick standing alone. Nice.    

The parades, drinking, and celebrating that help keep my name on lots of lips today are catnip to an ego like mine. But I'll not be fully satisfied until a holiday with my middle name is formally declared. To that end, I've retained the services of a flock of high-paid lobbyists, bribed a dozen members of Congress, and begun a grassroots campaign to have August 1 declared St. James Day, effective this year. I haven't yet settled on whether post offices and banks should close but Hallmark is gearing up and other noteworthy people named James have donated funds to my cause. With August being a barren holiday month, success is all but guaranteed. And as soon as St. James Day is codified, Barton is next in the queue. Posterity awaits, you'll see.                  

Getting the Hang of It

After thirteen full years of blogging, I might be getting the hang of it.

When Maiden Voyage was published on March 15, 2011, I was sixty-one years old and had stopped working full time almost exactly one year before. How old were you? What were you doing for a living at the time? Are you still doing that, something different, or have you left the full-time work world?

My abiding passions then were music, reading, and film; that hasn't changed a great deal. But initiating my blog helped me bring into sharper focus another passion that had always sustained me even if the necessities of life - like making a living - had frequently pushed it into the background. That until-then subsumed passion was a lifelong drive to organize my world via writing. What passions drive you? Which are lifelong vs. more recently discovered? 

 

Before this blog became essential to my life, my writing had taken many forms - poems, songs, essays, reviews, never-finished books, etc. Once I began blogging, I quickly discovered the discipline of being public and accountable for producing something routinely had been a critical missing element in my creative life. On a few occasions when I've had cause to re-read an old post, I've cringed. But more often, I've been pleased with what I've written. More important, many of my other finished endeavors - several of which I've been quite pleased with - would have likely never materialized without this blog acting as a catalyst. What recent or long-time discipline of yours has opened you up as blogging has done for me? 

If you are a first-time visitor to the bell curve - accidental or otherwise - welcome and I hope you return. If you're an occasional reader - no matter how occasional - thanks for checking in. If you're a regular reader, thank you so much and be sure to let me know how I can keep you engaged. If you've ever made a comment, please know - as I alluded to in Maiden Voyage - every comment or incipient spark of an online conversation helps ensure the bell curve will remain open for business. 

Reflections From The Bell Curve: Maiden Voyage

 

A Rocky First

If only I'd put my guitar back in its case after finishing the second song. 

Besides getting there early enough to chat with the other musicians before beginning to play - and quitting while I was still feeling good - I'm struggling to extract other pertinent lessons from my first experience participating in a public jam session. I made some music on Body and Soul with the piano player and held my own leading the quartet through Out of Nowhere. From there, things went awry. Quickly.  

The next three tunes I played on were all quite familiar, but first my hands and then my brain let me down. My anemic soloing on Alone Together disappointed me enough that having to transpose Night and Day and How High the Moon to different keys on the spot sent me into a musical tailspin. My brain freeze was followed by mortifying solos on both those songs which, in turn, sealed the deal. Though I'd waited too long, it was now time to pack up. 

This first will not be my last, despite my D+ performance. I plan to set aside my embarrassment and return to this session, provided the leader will allow me to sit in again. Perhaps I'll do so as soon as this week. But it will be a while before I invite anyone to attend and listen. When did you most recently put yourself out there? Did you fall on your face as badly I did? If so, how long was it before you got back on the horse?              

I've Got Your Number (#2)

First off, congratulations to the smarty-pants who quickly cracked the first installment of this newest series when I kicked it off in early February. Although this second iteration may not be a big enough challenge for that showoff, I've got a few more cooking that may foil even a geek like him. In the meanwhile, apply the same guidelines used for installment # 1. Those are ... 

* Identify the one title that is correct as stated.

* Identify three of the five having incorrect numbers in their title as stated and then transplant the correct number from a title that is elsewhere on this list of five.

* Identify one title having an incorrect number in its title as stated and supply the correct number without using Google. Then, take the incorrect number from that title and slot it into the title of a book later turned into a series of films. Ready? 

1.) When I'm 69

2.) 1:01 to Yuma

3.) Summer of 55

4.) Ol' 64 

5.) Sixty Years On   

Extra challenge for smarty-pants/showoff: Which artist (author, filmmaker, musician, TV personality, etc.) is most closely associated with the item having the correct title as stated? 

As with installment #1, if no comments/answers are forthcoming in due time, I'll supply a hint to help grease the wheels. Good luck.  

Practicing on People I Love

The dynamics of human communication are endlessly fascinating. While listening to a friend describe the difficulty he has communicating with his brother, I began reflecting on predictable breakdowns I have with my own siblings. I love them all at the same time as I frequently wonder how little they seem to get me. And I'd be surprised to learn that all three of them haven't had similar thoughts about me from time to time. Any of you with siblings ever had similar wonderings?

I'm guessing most of you would agree that our earliest communication models are those we learn by observing our parents speaking to each other. Then, if we have siblings - and especially if they are close in age to ourselves, as mine are to me - we begin building models with them that become highly influential in our early development as communicators. In effect, we're practicing. What works? What doesn't? What will elicit a positive response? What will annoy? Which of the techniques I'm trying out on my sisters or my brother will endear me to other people? Which techniques seem to alienate? Which will make me popular? Which should I avoid?

All that ran through my brain as my friend continued bemoaning the communication breakdowns with his brother. I re-played breakdown after breakdown with own my siblings from childhood, through adulthood, right up to the present day. Then my mind moved to lasting friendships I've built over those same years, friendships based on respectful communication. My final wondering: When will I stop practicing on people I love?        

A Reading Posse That Delivers

Throughout your reading life, who has had a major impact on the books you subsequently chose to read?

I've been quite fortunate over my entire reading life. Early on, both my sisters infected me with their passion for reading. Next was my wife; our shared love of literature has been a glue binding us for almost forty-six years. Then, as she grew into an adult and discerning reader, my oldest niece became the newest member of my reading posse as the century neared its end. I would guess more than a third of the novels I've read over my adult life were recommended to me by one of these four women.

I met the fifth member of my posse in 2010, soon after leaving the full-time work world. She selected the books and moderated the meetings for the first book club I ever joined. Five years later the two of us began meeting every month for a 1x1 book discussion. (February selection: Renata Adler's Speedboat, discussed on Rovos Rail as we journeyed from Pretoria, South Africa into Zimbabwe.) Because I began using a book journal in 2010 and have recorded ever since who or what directed me to a particular book, I know for sure that she has pointed me toward almost 25% of the novels or authors I've read since meeting her. How's that for a major impact? 

Of the excellent novelists introduced to me by this newest member of my reading posse, Louise Erdrich is near the top of the heap. Her evocative prose, superb storytelling skills, and memorable characters have helped me better understand the importance of bearing witness to Native American history. After finishing Four Souls (2004) - the fourth Erdrich novel I've devoured since 2010 - I realized anew how lucky I am to have a reading posse that consistently delivers. Who do you rely on like this?   

Words for the Ages: Line Twenty-Nine

"Every form of refuge has its price."

Over their long career as songwriting partners, Glenn Frey and Don Henley created many memorable songs, with lyrics almost universally well-suited to their simple but effective melodies. I know there are legions of Eagles fans among you, so I'm hoping you'll submit at least one nomination of an aphoristic Frey/Henley lyric you think is an equal to the short phrase above. Remember: Your nomination must be able to stand alone, be brief enough to be easily recalled, and it must contain a universal truth, i.e., words for the ages. 

Consider for a moment how much that phrase from Lyin' Eyes says about choices we each make throughout life. Although the "I guess" preceding that gem is necessary for the cadence of the lyrical line, those seven succinct words are the essential ones. The inescapable truth of it takes my breath away at the same time it reminds me of my missteps. What price have you paid for a refuge you chose? 

Re-Entry

"We may never pass this way again."

Although it's possible I'll get back to the continent of Africa in my remaining years, it's unlikely, especially given the number of other places I'd like to visit at least once. No matter; the last two + weeks exceeded my expectations in nearly every way. 

The food, the sights, and the companionship of our traveling companions were first rate. The history and context we got from our leader - a polymath and scofflaw in equal measure - the knowledge and expertise of our other guides, particularly the extraordinary lecture we had on David Livingstone, and the background information provided on each of the four countries we visited helped make everything we subsequently saw more meaningful. And being fully immersed in an unspoiled environment where birds and wildlife flourish was spiritually nourishing. 

Our last experience, an unplanned stop at the Apartheid Museum in Johannesburg on our final day - after we'd said goodbye to our Road Scholar group - was a fitting and moving coda to this exceptional trip. As re-entry begins, I desperately want to retain the buzz I'm feeling right now. Perhaps the twenty-nine pages I captured in my journal will assist me in doing so. I hope pictures my wife took - like the one directly below - will also help. Please share with me any technique that has helped you prolong a transcendent experience. I'll try anything to keep my African adventure fresh in my mind.

    

Dispatch Near the End of an African Adventure

Big thanks to those of you who've read my recent dispatches from Africa. Bigger thanks to those who took the time to make a comment on one or more of those posts. I only wish Wi-Fi had been more consistent because every day had several moments of magic I wanted to share while they were still fresh. 

Can any picture meaningfully convey the splendor of the Chobe River separating Botswana and Namibia? Which words might help bring you close to our experience as this African adventure approaches its end? Below is the river as it looked from the porch of our cabin on the Namibia side. Chirping insects, croaking frogs, and roaring lions greeted us at night. The vibrant birdsong enchanted us on our short walk to breakfast each morning. And each trip down the river was better than the last, bringing us into close and regular contact with herds of elephants, hippos and crocodiles within yards of our boat, countless birds.

I feel fortunate to have experienced the majesty of Africa.

Fourth Dispatch: Walking Through a Rainbow

You read that correctly. Among the many highlights this trip has delivered, walking through a rainbow while at Victoria Falls yesterday is - at least right this moment - near the top of my list. However, if I'm able to get a Wi-Fi signal tomorrow, my next post could well declare something different as near the top because every day has had several moments of magic. 

Starting on the flight from Cape Town to Pretoria last Wednesday, I began asking the other sixteen folks on this journey for their highlights to date. As we left Zimbabwe earlier today and headed to our final location in Namibia, I began re-asking the same question. To the person, everyone I spoke with cited different highlights this second time around.  

The picture below, taken during our elephant walk in Hwange National Park, may help explain why it's difficult for any of us to land on a favorite highlight. Each day delivers a new treasure that ascends to the top of the list. 

Dispatch #3: District Six Museum

"Courageous people do not fear forgiving for the sake of peace."  - Nelson Mandela

Hearing an eighty-five-year-old man describing what it was like for he and his family to be forcibly re-located was difficult. Walking around the District Six Museum in Cape Town and reading the first-hand testimony of countless others who had the same experience in South Africa was more difficult. Reading the words of Nelson Mandela above - a man jailed for twenty-seven years for resisting the ludicrous laws the nation of South Africa imposed on him and every other non-white person beginning in 1948 - reminded me how far I still must travel to become a person of grace. 

I cannot begin to imagine what might have been in my heart had I been forced to endure what black people in South Africa did under apartheid. But I'm reasonably sure I would not have evolved into a man anything like Mandela. Perhaps the time I spent listening to this morning's lecture and then reading the testimony of others forced to live with the horror of apartheid might get me within striking distance of that kind of grace.          

Dispatch from the Tip of the World

No words can convey what it felt like today standing 4000 feet above sea level at the southernmost tip of Africa. The picture - inadequate as it is - will have to suffice. 

But as awestruck as I was by nearly every sight we saw today, the evening we just spent at an African restaurant in Cape Town called Gold could end up being even more memorable. As we sampled small plates featuring the cuisine of eleven different countries, our Road Scholar group was also treated to a vibrant musical feast. The drumming, the singing, and the expert marimba playing were augmented by acrobatic dancing, puppetry, and face painting. A peak experience.